Toxic Blue on White Skin

Only in sleep there’s no fleeting from obsession or its aftermath

Only hands grabbing ankles, eyelashes in every direction. White fabric and whiter legs, resting on high temple steps
painted blue
by the moon (stone)
Their toxic fumes getting us high while we sway back and forth smiling and not talking

Is this the essence of what I was thinking about?

You don’t have a brother but I met him today, he swore you were twins, you had the same lips
Offered me a strawberry lace and held the other end. It tasted sweet nonetheless.
I promised him I wouldn’t kill you. I wanted to scream “but what do you do when something looks good?” He didn’t want you to come.

I took a plane, then the ferry
And I slept on the deck
I knew from the wind that I needed to rest
then pitied a happy family eating fried eggs.
So many dunes but you knew where to go, I showed you the pictures “just meet me behind that thing over there”

The blue paint had stuck to your palms, your soles and the tip of your tongue. The dress was pristine. Let me sit here with you, let me take off my shoes, just wait here a bit and I’ll be toxic with you.

We’re sitting down now
But we are still moving oscillating. We eat grapes sucking wine and ice cream
with tiny straws from a bowl. The straws are see through, you’re white, and everything else the moon is painting blue.

In a little while we’ll no longer be able to breathe. Let’s keep moving, caressing what’s left.
“At dawn I’ll make you fried eggs”

Live in the moment but only in sleep pure moment exists

Originally from Milan, Italy, Rosa Crepax lives, writes and teaches in London. She has a PhD from Goldsmiths University and is an academic with an interest in aesthetics and gender. As well as publishing in academic journals and books, she writes poetry. Her work has been recently featured in Hobart.